Arcade Fire: "Wake Up"

That's right. I'm still selling this band.

Darth Vader Being Annoying

Only a Star Wars geek would think this is funny. So how about it?

From the Massingberd-English dictionary:

As quoted in The New York Times:

“Convivial”: Habitually drunk.

“Did not suffer fools gladly”: Monstrously foul-tempered.

“Gave colorful accounts of his exploits”: A liar.

“A man of simple tastes”: A complete vulgarian.

“A powerful negotiator”: A bully.

“Relished the cadences of the English language”: An incorrigible windbag.

“Relished physical contact”: A sadist.

“An uncompromisingly direct ladies’ man”: A flasher.

COLUMN: The Running of the Gauntlet in Mexico

By Tobin Barnes
We decided to do the resort thing down in Los Cabos, Mexico.

Had never gone somewhere primarily to sit around a pool and walk along a beach before. Had never been to Mexico. Thought we’d give that stuff a try. Maybe find some other resort-kinda stuff to do, also. Experience a little local culture perhaps. It was like, what the hey?

Cashed in points we’d been hoarding to get “free” lodging at what looked like a swank place and bit the bullet on some over-priced plane tickets.

So allow me to tell you about our adventures.

Got up at 3:30 in the morning, and before noon, we were in sunny Mexico, down at the bottom of Baja California. Took a long time to get through Mexican customs--winding back and forth through a serpentine barrier--but no big deal there. Pretty much expected and delivered.

It was after we got through the luggage scanners that we got our first taste of Baja. Before us stood a phalanx of what at first appeared to be twenty or so chamber of commerce greeters, out in full force. Regaled with I.D. tags and similar shirts, they literally bumped into each other, trying, it seemed, to be the first of their multitude to welcome our arrival.

“Holla, senor. Do you have transportation?” the first competitor asked.

“No,” I responded, somewhat bemused. “We were just going to take a shuttle or taxi.”

“You can arrange that right over here,” he said, leading me to where he wanted me to be.

“Over here” was a seemingly endless row of well-manned cubicle counters. We were quickly turned over to an associate who broke out an arcane sheet of information that seemed overly complicated for a plain-old taxi ride--and with good reason.

I quickly deduced, having no straw in MY hair, that this was actually the beginning of a sales pitch. But for what, as yet, I had no idea. The broken English was a definite impediment to fully comprehending my fate.

Having been forewarned of the sales acumen of Mexican entrepreneurs, I, with difficulty, detached myself from the gentleman, looking again for a simple way to jump in a cab and head for the hotel, as though I were in control of the situation.

It was not to be. “Simple” just wasn’t done there.

Before we’d gotten ten feet away from the row of cubicles, we were almost literally collared by another greeter/bull-dogger.

“Do you need a shuttle or a taxi? I’ll pay for your ride to the hotel and back again to the airport when you leave.”

(The above is an admittedly vague interpretation. The meaning could have been more or less, actually. Again, as with all the “greeters,” I was getting about half of what was communicated.)

Highly dubious about such an unwarranted blessing of free rides--it couldn’t have been my good looks--I asked the guy what we had to do to get this.

“Just come to a free breakfast, and we’ll pay for the taxi to get you there.”

But what do I have to do? I continued to insist. Ah Chihuahua! Tell it to me straight, por favor.

“Just listen to a presentation while you have breakfast. Man at a podium talks while you eat breakfast. Hey, maybe we’ll give you a free dinner, too.”

About this time, my wife headed off to the lavatory, leaving me at the mercy of a stranger bearing strange gifts. I continued to tell him that all I wanted was a taxi or a shuttle, and he continued to tell me that was exactly what I was getting...with strings.

But no matter what I said, I couldn’t shake him. I was like Br’er Rabbit battling Tar Baby.

Finally, my wife reappeared, so I used the distraction to break loose, but other greeters were hungrily waiting for me--the prey evades one wolf just to be harassed by the next until the pack makes the kill.

I looked back and saw my wife snared by the same guy I thought I had eluded. That slowed my momentum something fierce: Should I continue struggling for freedom or wait for my wife? Freedom was a near thing, but the hesitation became my undoing. I was in their clutches again. It was like trying to run a football through the Stanford Marching Band. There was just nowhere to go.

To make a long story shorter, we finally succumbed to a mustachioed bandito named Alberto. To him we forked over an extravagant $28, down from an original $60, for a shuttle ride to our hotel, for which he said we’d be reimbursed. He also promised a free ride back to the airport when we left, and a free ride from our hotel to a free breakfast and back.

By then my wife had caught the spirit, stood her ground, and wangled a free dinner in Cabo San Lucas and two rounds of golf, cart included, at the “best course” in Mexico. But we never knew at the time whether we’d get any of this, other than a wallet that was $28 lighter.

During the haggling, Alberto wanted to know if I liked to play golf for money because he might show up to play with me. I told him no way would I play golf with a shark like him.

(Tune in next time to see how all this turns out.) Adios, amigos.

THE ETHICIST: Revelation

COLUMN: Is Too Much Virtue a Vice?

By Tobin Barnes
Anybody, besides me, think the way we pick a President is crazy?

Raise your hand.

There. I thought so.

We’ve been at this for about a year now, and we’ve got nearly a year to go, for crying out loud. On the other hand, European campaigns take about a month or two. Why does it take us two years or more? It’s not like Americans enjoy political campaigns. Most would rather have a mold problem in their walls. Heck, about half of us don’t vote anyway.

Just thank your lucky stars you don’t live in one of the “hot” primary states. Those people must feel like they’re getting lobotomies with all the polling, pamphleteering, advertising, and speechifying.

Problem is, if you live in Iowa, New Hampshire, or South Carolina, one campaign’s electioneering probably starts sounding like another. Only difference might be that Republican candidates talk about who’s more Christian than the other guy, and Democratic candidates talk about who’s got a better health plan than the other guy, or girl.

The differences oftentimes seem almost ridiculously minimal. It’s like no one wants to take the bull by the horns, or call a spade a spade, or take a leap of faith, or even mix a few metaphors. Instead, they’re all tip-toeing through the tulips, trying not to rain on anybody’s parade.

Biggest thing seems to be avoiding making the big goof that will K.O. the candidacy.

They don’t want to appear disquietingly over-enthusiastic, like Howard Dean when he went into his “I Have a Scream” speech, as some wags call it. He had taken a disappointing third place in the Iowa caucuses and tried to make it sound like a good way to win the Presidency. Now he’s the subject of “scream remixes” on the Internet.

Yeah, evidently self-parody isn’t good for a political career. Howard Dean’s misstep slipped his once promising candidacy into a big toaster adjusted to the dark setting.

And candidates don’t want to appear too girly-man, like Edmund Muskie when he shed tears amidst New Hampshire snowflakes because a conservative local paper had targeted his wife as way of attacking him. The paper alleged that his wife drank and used off-color language. Muskie’s defense started as a chivalrous moment and turned into a mushy bowl of Malt-O-Meal.

So get rightfully upset at nasty newsmen but appear too human and your campaign is “one foot out the door and the other on a banana peel,” as my golfing buddy likes to say.

Of course, there’s innumerable other blindside-yourself ways of committing political hara-kiri, some yet to be invented. Stayed tuned. Their debuts may appear in the not-too-distant future.
But once again, is this any way to pick a President?

The evidence indicates that we’re demanding vanilla robots who never make a mistake. Are we electing great leaders or National Honor Society Presidents who have always kept their shoes shined? No pranks, no screw ups, no detentions.

By present standards, at least half our past great presidents wouldn’t have gotten past the Sunday morning talk programs. Their duels or illicit affairs or missteps or angry outbursts would have tossed them into the dust bin of history.

Besides as Abraham Lincoln has been attributed to have said: “It has been my experience that those who have no vices have very few virtues.”

Arcade Fire: "Haiti"

Arcade Fire: "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)"

Arcade Fire: "Keep The Car Running" (at Jonathan Ross 2007)

NO CARS GO - THE ARCADE FIRE - GLASTONBURY 2007

My favorite comtemporary band. Take a listen.

COLUMN: And Now for Something Completely Different

By Tobin Barnes
So I’m sitting in my living room, watching my favorite TV music program, “Austin City Limits” on PBS.

It’s my favorite because you never know what you’re going to get. Could be an a cappella South African men’s choir, like “Ladysmith Black Mambazo,” or an alternative rock group, like “The Flaming Lips,” for crying out loud.

Uh huh, it’s a well-shaken grab bag, but the producers usually come up with the best of any and all genres. It’s an education in music, and I usually come away appreciating more creative variations than I did before.

And I’ll admit, I need the education. After all, I’m the guy who admitted just recently that I love the song “Sugar, Sugar.” (“He who is without sin, cast the first stone.”)

My take on music, not being formally trained, is much like the Supreme Court judge’s view on obscenity: I know it when I see it.

For me, I know good music when I hear it. That’s not particularly profound, but most people would say the same thing, even Mozart or maybe Iggy Pop. Of course, good music recognition is also kinda like being a fine wine connoisseur, the more of it you try, the better you get; that is, up to an over-indulged certain point.

Anyway, I’m watching Austin City Limits, and this alternative band, “Arcade Fire,” comes on. Immediately, I’m hooked--I’m talking right out of the box.

They’re style is past, present, and future, all wrapped into one.

And most of all, they’re fresh.

Fresh? Heck, they’re almost intensely different, yet still recognizable, if you know what I mean.

Since the golden age of rock, I’ve been waiting for popular music to morph into some new, positive directions. (Instead, there’s been a ton of mediocre, if not negative, directions—let me count the ways, starting with Gangsta Rap).

I guess what I’ve been waiting for is “Arcade Fire” and their ilk, and hopefully, more kith and kin.

Originating in Montreal, Canada, the band’s creative core is the husband-wife team of Win Butler and Regine Chassagne. Win’s wife has an almost bizarre stage presence, oftentimes mouthing the lyrics her husband sings, like a mute Greek chorus. But then, all band members ecstatically express themselves by bouncing and cavorting around the stage, feeling the emotion of what they’re doing.

This ten-person extravaganza plays everything from a medieval hurdy-gurdy to french horns to xylophone to violins to accordion to a big honking church pipe organ, as well as all the standard, rock-type instruments. Sometimes, band members will even sing through a bullhorn or bang on a football helmet, but almost all play several instruments and sing, sometimes in choir-like way.

Now all this might sound like a great big mess, but hardly so. They’re into new and old sound combinations, and most of them work. Every song has a great melody and/or catchy guitar riff that keeps the listener right there.

Their style has variously been described as alternative rock, indie rock, art rock,
and my favorites, epic rock and baroque pop.

I know for some of you, Arcade Fire is nothing knew—they’ve been around since 2004. But I’d wager most would find this band to be a great new listening experience.

Start out with “Rebellion (Lies)” from their debut album “Funeral.” That’s right, not much moon, June, and spoon with this bunch: They’ve definitely got an edgy point of view, but that’s just another reason for recommendation. And if you like that song, then listen to the rest of the CD.

Unlike most albums today, there isn’t a bad song on it. Most of them are just plain great.

After that, move onto the equally fine “Neon Bible,” released last March.

The band is on hiatus now, but I can’t wait to see what epic, baroque things they come up with next.

(Watch the following two videos to get a better idea of what I'm talking about.)

The Arcade Fire - Rebellion (Lies)

This is the official music video of the song. At the end you can see some more videos.

Arcade Fire: "Rebellion (Lies)"

The sound doesn't do the song justice, but the video gives and idea of the groups manic energy. At the end you can see some more videos.

THE ETHICIST: Business and Friends

First Wedding Dance as a Couple

Kelly Pickler Pushes the Boundaries of Density

Wedding Invitation from Hell

(Click the title, then click on the invitation to get 100% view)

COLUMN: Should I Pick Him Up?

By Tobin Barnes
A hitchhiker stood by the side of the Interstate, not far from an on-ramp.

Nothing new, right. See it all the time.

But this one was different. He had a new approach.

Thing is, I don’t pick up hitchhikers. Never.

Seen too many movies, I guess. A lot of bad endings, both for the driver and the thumber. Bloody stuff, usually.

Doesn’t mean I haven’t hitched a ride myself. You’d think that’d make me sympathetic. But no.

I was desperate that one time, you see. I was in Sioux Falls, and I had to get out of there. If I had stayed, I’d have to keep taking the old paint off the clapboards of a house with a heat gun and a scraper, then sand the remnants down to the wood.

Far as I could figure, it was a job made in hell, especially in the high heat of summer.

It was my friend’s sister’s house. We’d been working twelve hour days. That was four hours more than I’d been used to working during my college summers. Besides, I didn’t want to work even one hour more with a heat gun and a scraper. I figured I had nothing more to prove in that regard.

So I hit the road, thumbing my way back to my hometown and leaving my forlorn friend holding the heat-gun-and-scraper bag.

It wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but then again, it was his sister not mine who’d given us that less than sterling opportunity.

However, the point of that is this.

Desperate people, like I was then, hitchhike.

But unlike I was then, hitchhikers are also often at the ends of their tethers: dead broke, luckless, and oftentimes downcast.

Though they are metaphorically my brothers in whom I theoretically take an interest, I don’t want them sitting beside me in my car, thinking of ways to disembowel me, like in the movies.

On the other hand, “What would Jesus do?”

Other than not drive a Hummer, He’d most assuredly pick them up.

But then again, I’m most assuredly not Jesus, despite the fact that I wouldn’t drive a Hummer, either. As you can imagine, the resemblance doesn’t go much beyond that.

Which brings us back to the hitchhiker I was talking about at the outset.

He was holding this sign, you see.

Again, nothing new there.

But this sign said, “Jesus Saves.”

Though I appreciated the message, this new tactic didn’t change my mind about hitchhikers in general or this one in particular.

I supposed his sign was meant to assure drivers that they’d not be taking a chance by picking him up.

Didn’t work on me, however. The sign, after all, could have merely been a ploy. A knife or gun might still have been at the ready.

And even if the sign were not a ploy, but a sincere statement of his beliefs, that would still not convince me to pick him up. The sign might indicate that he was an evangelizer of the most extreme sort. His version of The Word sitting next to me for miles and miles might be just another warped edition of the long, strange trip.

And who needs that.

So I drove on, taking comfort in the knowledge that as the sign said, this hitchhiker would be taken care of in the long run, if not now.

Big Otis at the Cooley Wedding

We couldn't make Brett and Crystal Cooley's wedding in Houston last weekend, but Tom sent this report:

"Thought about my friends that couldn’t be at Brett’s wedding this weekend while I was at the reception. It turns out that Crystal had some connections (would take too long to explain) that linked her up with a band that was awesome. All the Motown, Temptations, Sam & Dave, etc. sounds—brass included. Big Otis (band leader) was at our rehearsal party, and talking to him really took me back tune-wise. You would have been in your element—wish you could have been there for the fun. In absence of that, I’m attaching a couple of links to his music. Hope it takes you back. Big Otis even got me on the dance floor, which is one hell of a chore—I kind of expected it though, so I quickly loosened up with a few beers in the first five minutes or so of the reception (reminded me of those “primers” we used to experience at USD.)"

Download these Big Otis songs. Top drawer, and they'll take you back:
http://www.bigotisshowband.com/mp3s/Big%20Otis%20-%20Wall%20To%20Wall.mp3

http://www.bigotisshowband.com/mp3s/Big%20Otis%20-%20Midnight%20Hour.mp3

http://www.bigotisshowband.com/mp3s/Big%20Otis%20-%20Let%27s%20Stay%20Together.mp3

http://www.bigotisshowband.com/mp3s/Big%20Otis%20-%20Hard%20To%20Handle.mp3

http://www.bigotisshowband.com/mp3s/Big%20Otis%20-%20Lovin%20You%20To%20Long.mp3

Photography Tip

(Click the title)

THE ETHICIST: Minding the Store

Congress Is Hard at Work

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

COLUMN: When It's Hip to Be Hippy

By Tobin Barnes
It’s the age-old conundrum for men. What’s more important in a woman? Looks or intelligence?

Makes their heads spin.

Believe it or not, men don’t necessarily want both.

That’s if you believe a study on speed dating.

You heard me, a study on speed dating, conducted by two psychologists and two economists. That’s a lot of brain power for a thimble-sized subject. At first glance, whole thing seems like hunting rabbits with a rocket launcher. Must have gotten a government grant.

The lead researcher is Ray Fishman who, according to New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, met his future wife, a doctor, on a blind date. The doctor, Ellie Grossman, was later discussing her prospective catch with her grandmother, who told her, “Never let a man think you’re smarter. Men don’t like that.”

The couple married after she proposed. Apparently, she wasn’t going to hide her brains under a bushel with the coy lassie approach. (Boy, is that ever a mixed metaphor.)

But according to Fishman’s study, Grandma’s perception of men is generally correct.
Fishman and his colleagues conducted their two-year study at a local bar near Columbia University in New York. The gist of his research recently appeared in Slate:

“We found that men did put significantly more weight on their assessment of a partner’s beauty, when choosing, than women did. We also found that women got more dates when they won high marks for looks.”

Now it’s not like men are complete glamour hogs. They prize intelligence, too, according to the study, but only to a certain extent.

“It turns out that men avoided women whom they perceived to be smarter than themselves,” reports Fishman. “The same held true for measures of career ambition—a woman could be ambitious, just not more ambitious than the man considering her for a date.

“We males are a gender of fragile egos,” Fishman concludes, “in search of a pretty face and are threatened by brains or success that exceeds our own.”

Okay, nothing new there. Any guy could have told you that without a two-year study. We’re admittedly a less-than-profound gender.

But what are we male troglodytes going to do if we add the above to the following information:

According to another recent study, women with a lot of curves are not only more intelligent than less curvaceous women but also bear more intelligent children.

This research was undertaken by Steven Gaulin of UC at Santa Barbara and William Lassek of the U of Pittsburgh. A couple more big guns.

Here’s the reason, they say, for this apparent paradox: Curvy women store more omega-3 fatty acids in their hips, and it’s omega-3 that help builds babies’ brains. Evidently, there’s a prime ratio of small waist to expansive hips that works best, and they’ve even quantified it. But, obviously such calculations are too erudite for a column of this stature.

But here’s what I’ve gathered. Curvy mothers have curvy daughters and so on, and that’s where the smarts come from.

What’s important is that this flies in the face Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole Smith, and other such bombshells. Their curves dictate that they were smarter than they put on. And thus, the curvy dumb blond becomes an urban legend, if scientific research is to be believed.

Even more to the point, what about the poor, testosterone-muddled schlub searching for Miss Right? According to the first study mentioned, all this time he’s been trying to find a woman who’s less intelligent and less ambitious than he.

And cripes!

He’s been looking in all the wrong places.

Frank Caliendo - Impressions

THE ETHICIST: Good Grad, Bad Grad

THE ONION: BS Vote Is up for Grabs

Poll: Bullshit Is Most Important Issue For 2008 Voters

COLUMN: This Is Going To Be Tough To Admit

By Tobin Barnes
Okay, time once again to open the door to the confessional and get down on the kneeler.

This is nothing new.

As you know, I’ve bloodied myself in print many times before. I’m not proud.

For example, I’ve admitted I’m not much fun in a large social gathering, like a wedding, or for that matter, a funeral--kind of a mope, actually. That’s right, I’m dull in a group of six or more. I don’t know, or want to know, how to mix. You know, flit from one conversation to the next. Mingle, in other words. Tell someone I’ll be right back when I have no such intention.

Small talk just isn’t my bag.

My old man could talk the ears off a rabbit, while I’m the rabbit who’ll run and hide when faced with the niceties of such conversational yada-yada.

And just recently, I’ve admitted to at times being a zombie. Uh huh, I’ll zone out and let time pass without any vestige of mental presence. I’ve found it almost pleasant to be there but not there. Perhaps you’ve experienced my undead state and wondered where I was. Sorry. See you when things get more interesting.

Well, as damning as those and other admissions are, here comes my lastest shocker.

Ready? Here goes. It isn’t pretty.

I love the song “Sugar, Sugar.”

"Oh....Honey, Honey. You are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you."

See, I can’t help myself. And admit it. You like that stupid little ditty, too, don’t you?

Confessing your addiction is the most important of the twelve steps. Except, of course, you’ll never recover from this one.

It’s infectious to the point of being sinister. Once the song is planted in your brain, it robs you of your ability to think higher level thoughts, like what’s for supper.

I’ve loved “Sugar, Sugar” from the first time I heard it back when I was in high school. According to Songfacts.com, it was the number one single for 1969, beating out The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, you name them.

I’ve heard it maybe fourteen hundred times since, and I still haven’t gotten tired of it. It’s evil I tell you. It’s what they call a guilty pleasure. And...oh, do I feel guilty.

Here I am, a guy who can make sense out of some of the most arcane lines in Shakespeare. I can read Paradise Lost and pretty much know what Milton’s talking about. And then I’ve got lines like, “When I kissed you girl, I knew how sweet a kiss could be” running in my head, like some kind of mold rot.”

What’s wrong with this picture?

Even when we were back in high school, we called this kind of music “bubble gum.” We were oftentimes contemptuous of it. But all the time, I secretly liked such bubble gum songs as “Sugar, Sugar,” “Dizzy” and “Hooray for Hazel” by Tommy Roe, and the saccharine, juvenile “Indian Giver” by the 1910 Fruitgum Company, for crying out loud.

Now some bubble gum was fairly respectable, such as “Build Me Up Buttercup,” but nevertheless, you could hardly admit you were a big fan of The Foundations.

And The Archies? God forbid!

After all, The Archies were a prefabricated invention from the Archie comic book series and Saturday morning program. (Remember Archie, Jughead, Veronica and Betty? I’m afraid I do.)

So this was a fictional band made up of studio musicians.

The Archies recorded “Sugar, Sugar” after The Monkees, another prefab band, rejected it, according to Wikipedia. Ray Stevens, the comedic singer who gave us the semi-classic “Gitarzan,” was the talent who supplied those nifty hand claps in “Sugar, Sugar.”

Wikipedia reports that the pedigree of the song doesn’t stop there. It was later covered by Wilson Pickett, Tom Jones, Ike & Tina Turner, Bob Marley & The Wailers (the reggae version?), and The Germs, among others.

Evidently, there’s no accounting for taste.

THE ETHICIST: Garden of Vandals

Of retribution and restitution.

The Infinite Lateral

EDITOR'S NOTE: Gees Louise!

Alert!

It's not me!

I just noticed that my Google ads have gotten a little racy lately, like "Meet Local Cheating Wives" and "Meet Lonely Housewives" and "Find an Asian Wife." Google automatically, and evidently brainlessly, inserts ads, supposedly based on the site's content.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote a column called "One Wedding: Two Wives." I think the "wives" stuff is prompting Google to insert the ads, assuming my material is of an even lower caliber than it actually is.

Anyway, sorry for the slutty stuff, and hopefully, more highbrow material will soon replace it. Catch you later.

COLUMN: I'm Up to Dull and Feeling Better

By Tobin Barnes
Last time, I was talking about being a zombie. How sometimes I go into zombie mode as a survival technique. You know, like when things become unbearably unpleasant for one reason or another, and I just want to zone out while time passes.

I’ve been feeling better lately, thank you. I’ve had somewhat of a recovery. Now I’m just feeling dull.

It’s November after all. November is a hip season that isn’t all that hip. If there’s such a thing as a bland month, this is it.

Only thing to look forward to in November is the family-enabled gorge-fest at Thanksgiving.
Uh huh, another couple pounds popping the buttons and challenging the seams. I attract weight like a fat globule the way it is. Last thing I need is three thousand calories at a sitting. Ends up being more than one Butterball at the table—me.

Thanksgiving is my brother’s favorite holiday. I can come up with about ten better ones.

So I’ve been feeling dull now that it’s early November. Better than being a zombie, but it’s still not all beer and skittles.

In this state, I need my support group.

I go to Dullmen.com, and I find myself at home.

Haven’t been there for a while, but predictably, not much has changed. After all, change is not what the brothers are looking for.

As the mission statement says, Dullmen.com is “a place—in cyberspace—where Dull Men can share thoughts and experiences, free from pressures to be in and trendy,
free instead to enjoy the simple, ordinary things of everyday life.”

Guys like us are “Born to be mild” because “We don’t get out much.” We remind ourselves that “It’s okay to be ordinary.”

With reassurance like that I start feeling better.

Immediately, I see that at Dullmen.com November is Celebrate the Fig Month. Har! Is this a mildly fun bunch of guys or what? Only time a Dull Man like me has ever been around anything as exotic as a fig is in my Newton, and even that’s been a while.

Feeling all warm and comfy, I now begin browsing around the site.

Being an avid reader, I check out the book recommendations. No rave reviews. They’re a no-no at Dullmen: too exciting.

However, the site’s lukewarm about The Art of Napping by William A. Anthony, Ph.D, and his sequel The Art of Napping at Work. They’re also mildly impressed by How to Dunk a Donut: The Science of Everyday Life by Len Fisher. Finally, they list The Potato: How the Humble Spud Rescued the Western World by Larry Zuckerman.

Books like these will be sure to keep us Dull Men nodding off. Just what we’re looking for.

Next, I check out an article by one of my favorite writers at Dullmen, Grover Click, who’s the Assistant Vice President of the Dull Men’s Club. He’s been checking out Extreme Ironing, like when people choose perilous places to iron such as atop Devil’s Tower. He says the Extreme Ironing Bureau is the home of “the latest danger sport that combines the thrill of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt.”

However, Grover isn’t enamored of the extreme ironers. As he says, “I don’t get it. I like to iron in my basement. That’s where I enjoy ironing—the pure joy of ironing. My basement is quiet and calm. And free from any danger.”

Spoken like a true Dull Man. It makes my heart swell to be an advocate of such a group.

As usual, I topped off my visit at Dullmen.com by looking at their latest jokes. Here’s one you’ll almost enjoy (but be warned, it’s a little racy):

Two brooms were hanging together in a closet. After a while they got to know each other so well they decided to get married. One broom was, of course, the bride broom, the other the groom broom.

The wedding was lovely.

At the wedding dinner, the bride broom leaned over and said to the groom broom, “I think I am going to have a little whisk broom.”

“Impossible!” said the groom broom. “We haven’t even swept together.”

SLIDESHOW: Motivators

(Sent by Pat Gainey)

COLUMN: Days of the Living Dead

By Tobin Barnes
My father-in-law was a mortician.

Said he’d be the last one to let me down. Har!

Didn’t work out that way, but the image has stuck. I see him pushing the button, the motor kicks in, and soon I’m six feet under.

A goner.

But sometimes, even while we’re alive, we have to die a little to stay vital.

You’ve been there.

Every once in a while—to merely survive the day-to-day rat race—a guy’s got to turn into a zombie.

Know what I mean?

Yeah...that’s right...kinda become undead.

Doesn’t mean he’s got to stop functioning, just that he has to take it down a couple notches from maybe prime operating performance.

Ironically enough, it’s actually a survival technique.

Oh, the guy’s still functioning when he’s in his zombie mode, still going through the motions—just not completely there. Numb might be a better description.

And numb can be good.

That way, in the undead state, time passes during unpleasant periods without the pain of being truly present.

You’ve seen the movies about the undead. We guys get just like them sometimes.

The zombies stumble and bumble and mumble across the screen. They grab at things, but miss. They chase after things, but stagger along, stumble and fall. They try to communicate, but it’s just stupid cave man talk. Aargh! Urpp!

And who can blame them? Heck, they just climbed out of a grave, for crying out loud. It’s been a bad couple decades. They aren’t what they used to be. They can’t even put their arms down.

But, after a fashion, zombies still go about their business, though admittedly not very effectively—only victims they ever catch are their cousins, the brain dead—but nonetheless their awkward gallumphiness has a certain impact on others.

After all, zombies are hard to miss. They meander into the local bar or stop-and-rob, people are bound to scream.

And so we guys do the zombie routine during our rough patches, like during a rainy weekend with no golf or midway through an endless project at work. Or like Dilbert during a meeting.

Also helps when a guy’s short on cash. Turns into a zombie, he doesn’t care. (After all, real zombies don’t carry around much cash. Heck, the undertaker took it.)

Like I said, a guy feels less pain when he’s like a zombie—makes things more bearable, if not necessarily pleasant.

Time enters a fog, and when he resurrects, he’s on the other side of an obligation.

I was in zombie mode for a time last week. Uh huh, I was undead.

I was in the nether state of there and not there.

Oh, I was breathing. I was talking, kinda. And I was functioning at a minimal level, I suppose.

But people probably looked at me and thought, “Guy’s a zombie!”

Didn’t bother me, though.

Nice thing about being a zombie, you don’t care what people think.

Besides, now I feel a lot better. Almost alive.

THE ETHICIST: Wet Work

COLUMN: One wedding: Two wives

By Tobin Barnes
A guy gets married and buys a house.

Happens all the time.

So what’s he got now?

“A wife and a house,” you say, somewhat bemused by such an obvious question.

“Maybe a path to true happiness,” you continue, thinking there must be more to it. “Perhaps marital bliss.”

Good try, but you’re wrong.

Scratch the surface, oh naive one, to see that what he really has now is two wives. That’s right, two.

“You jest,” you say.

“Nay,” I say.

You see, as I said, a wife and a house is two wives.

And to make matters worse, they’re kind of like sisters, both assiduously concerned about maintenance and upkeep, much more than the guy would ever be.

And maybe even more accurately, one is like the lawyer for the other.

Wife number one, the person, not only wants to keep herself up to the nines—some men would call this high maintenance—but she’s also an oftentimes rabid advocate for wife number two, the house.

Men, like me, are quite content to slowly and quietly descend into innocuous deterioration, if not dilapidation—my personal goal. Women and houses, on the other hand, fight the process tooth and nail.

“Women,” as the Roman poet Ovid observed 2,000 years ago, “are always buying something.” (Uh huh, the breed hasn’t changed much.)

This perfected process of perpetual purchase keeps them up to date. Something is always needed, whether it be shoes—always shoes, for crying out loud—clothes, toiletries, you name it. Common words heard around the house are “I need some new....”

But not to worry, all the things women purchase are “on sale.”

Those two words are meant to make men feel better as they trundle off to the poor house, which, by the way, is also “on sale.”

Now this first wife would be plenty for any man. Shoot, one wife is overwhelming.

Add to that the silent demands of the second wife, the house.

Maintenance is a house’s raison d’etre, it’s whoop-tee-do.

At any given moment in a house’s life span, something—large, small, but always expensive—needs to be done. Home ownership is a contract with the devil, and he’s heavily invested in lumber yards, hardware stores, and appliance outlets.

The house produces a never-ending mantra of “And there’s something else that needs to be done.” Except the message is delivered wordlessly with barely heard, but still naggingly audible, sighs. The house plays the silent pity game. One way or another, it will be sure to let the man know that this thing broke, that thing wore out, and the other thing looks shabby.

Yeah, the house, the man’s second wife, puts on a pity party and invites his first wife, who quickly becomes the house’s vocal advocate, the house’s Johnnie Cochran.

Uh huh, “The house is a pit, so you must refit.”

That’s right. You’re the guilty one.

Both wives say so.

Time to cough it up.

Homer Simpson Quotes

Here's a great way to waste time. Some actually have some depth. (Click the title)

THE ETHICIST: Milkshake Misdeed?

Will Ferrell playing George Bush

Roy Wilson sent me a video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWdiHtv6T6s
and that led me to the one above. Both versions are good.

COLUMN: It's Not Your Lucky Day

By Tobin Barnes
A good Chinese restaurant is a treat. (Uh huh, I know people who wouldn’t agree—hard-core carnivores, mostly—but for me it is.)

And then at the end of the meal, there’s another treat—a fortune cookie. Yeah!

Can’t really tell you why fortune cookies turn people’s cranks. Just one of those things, I guess. I’m as big a sucker as anyone.

Course, it’s kind of a sweet and sour moment, too, because you’re also getting the bill along with it, but, hey, so it goes. Besides, maybe it’s not your bill this time, and so sometimes it can be “all good,” as they say in the hood.

Anyway, you’re getting this fairly decent, vanilla-flavored cookie—talk about a cookie-cutter, every-one-is-the-same cookie, this is it—and even though you’ve already eaten a barrel full of sprouts and shoots, you’ve still got room for it. That’s opposed to those gut-busting, 3000-calorie desserts you get at other restaurants. (Mystery to me how people manage to pound down those chocolate mountains after a big meal.)

In that same little cellophane cookie package, you’re also getting this equally vanilla, middle-of-the-road, nobody-gets-hurt fortune on a little piece of paper locked inside the cookie.

As innocuous as the fortune typically is, people always—never seen anyone pass it up—crack the cookie to see what their fortune is, then pass it around to others at the table. It’s good for a moment’s har-har, if nothing else.

Cynics have made fun of this ritual with sometimes-hilarious mock fortunes. Here’s my favorite: “Dogs will lead police to your body.”

Now fortunes like that would certainly add spice, a little ginger maybe, to the end of a till-then satisfying meal. But, obviously, no self-respecting Chinese restaurant that wants to stay in business is going to go that far, even for a tentative black-humor laugh.

Nevertheless, according to a New York Times article by Tony Cenicola, there’s a fortune cookie company that wants to put a little zing into their cookie messages, making them much less bland than normal.

For example, “Today is a disastrous day. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

Not surprisingly, that might apply to most people on any given day.

And here’s another one: “It’s over your head now. Time to get some professional help.”

Ditto.

Yeah, these are a little more pointed than some of the typical Confucian fortune cookie bromides, such as, “If you enjoy what you do, you'll never work another day in your life.”

Good thought, but been there, done that.

The new wave fortunes are contained in the cookies of Wonton Food of New York City, the country’s biggest fortune cookie maker. So don’t be shocked if you get one, as their new-style cookies are spreading into restaurants across the nation.

But to admittedly mixed reaction.

The Times article quotes one blogger who got the “professional help” cookie: “I shot the audacious baked item a dirty look and proceeded to eat it. And I hope it hurt.”

Bernard Chow, marketing coordinator at Wonton Food, says “We wanted our fortune cookies to be a little bit more value-added. We wanted to get some different perspective, to write something that is more contemporary.”

Mission accomplished. Here’s some more:

“Perhaps you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.”

“Your luck is just not there. Attend to practical matters today.”

“There may be a crisis looming, be ready for it.”

Yowsa!

And here you were, just out for the night, looking for some wonton soup, a couple egg rolls, and a plate of beef and broccoli.

THE ETHICIST: Dirty Money?

THE ONION: Uh, Classified

I don't know whether this is funny or scary.


Proposed (Classified) Bill Will Defend Against Flesh-Eating (Classified)

Jon Stewart: "Coalition of the Diminishing"

Laugh Lines: Jay Leno

This is a great batch through to the end. (Click the title.)

Laugh Lines: Conan O'Brien

Well above average.

Brother Don's O'Gorman Girls Tennis Team Wins South Dakota State Title

His wife, my sister-in-law (well, obviously), is the assistant coach. (Click the title for full story from Argus Leader)

COLUMN: It's a fierce up and down battle

By Tobin Barnes
Think the Hundred Years War was long? The Wars of the Roses?

They can’t hold a candle to the War of the Sexes. It began in the mists of time and won’t end until human life finally morphs into a higher form. And by the looks of things, that higher life form isn’t coming anytime soon.

Battles rage on many fronts in the War of the Sexes. Men have their sacred ground where they prefer to fight and women theirs.

But one battle front rages where neither side will concede an inch to the other. It’s where the battles are most virulent in nature and no-holds-barred in aspect.

That’s right. You guessed it.

It’s on the home front in the battle over the thermostat.

Man, it can be merciless.

Most of the tactics are based on subterfuge and chicanery.

Men quietly and secretly creep across enemy lines to turn the thermostat down, while women quietly and secretly tiptoe over the trip wires to turn it back up. Uh huh, both sides utilize the sneak attack. They appear to be doing something else, but that something else always takes them past the thermostat where the heat gets jacked back up or jacked back down.

Then, before long, the other side realizes he or she has been blind-sided again. Bitter protests arise and plans laid to counter-attack at the earliest opportunity.

Back and forth, back and forth it goes. Thermostat manufacturers will soon recommend regular dial lubrication, maybe WD-40, because the control gets moved so much.

But I have just acquired a new weapon to use in the battle on the heat front. It’s a programmable remote.

We just got a gas stove to replace our pellet stove, and it’s regulated digitally with that remote.

Hallelujah!

You see, I’m half geek.

I don’t mind reading manuals and instructions. I almost kinda dig it. Yeah, I’m that far gone.

My wife, on the other hand, abhors instructions. In her eyes, they’re the bane of mankind.

But she can do puzzles—you know, like those two bent nails hooked together?—as if she’s Einstein. I just marvel at such ability. Give me those two nails and ask me to separate them? Soon my eyes glaze over. I hate puzzles and riddles. Usually don’t even try.

Sudoku? Forgetaboutit.

But detailed instructions? Love ’em.

And this thermostat remote has detailed instructions on steroids.

I can set a standard temperature to start the stove and turn it off. I can even pre-program four temperatures a day Monday through Friday and four temperatures a day for the weekend.

My wife will never—I repeat, never—read the instruction manual.

This is a major coup in the battle of the thermostat.

All she’ll ever be able to do is turn the stove on or off. Of course, even that’s a dangerous weapon in this grim war. If only I could dismantle that option and keep the operation strictly programmable.

Hey, maybe that’s in the manual, too.

Gallery of the Odd

Laugh Lines: Jay Leno

"The Forbes list of the 400 richest Americans is out and everyone on the list is now a billionaire. You can’t even be a millionaire and be on the list; you have to be a billionaire to be on the list. See, those Bush tax cuts are working. You see!"

COLUMN: I Prefer Mine Open, Thank You

By Tobin Barnes
Just ran into this quote by Malcolm Forbes. The guy was rich and notoriously playful, but I suppose he had his serious side, too.

Here it is: “Education’s purpose is to replace an empty mind with an open one.”

Pretty good, huh?

I love witty turn-of-phrase aphorisms like that, especially when there’s a gold nugget of truth inside them.

But maybe you don’t go along with the idea. Maybe you’re of the persuasion that says education is for picking up skills and abilities and knowledge. Molding clay into usable containers. Creating a product.

Well, me, too. But all that good stuff goes for naught without the open-mindedness attached. The product needs to be able to service itself.

Heck, knowledge is out there by the bushel load. Unlike past times, it’s easily at our finger tips. We’re a push button away from standing on the shoulders of giants. They’ve lifted us up. All we have to do is seek even higher.

Developing open minds, on the other hand? Well, that’s a little trickier. Takes some nurturing. Takes some pats on the back, takes some burping.

But open minds are worth the trouble.

Open minds tend to be self-educating.

Once open-mindedness is achieved, the education doesn’t stop. Open minds are self-lubricating.

Those minds are less likely to fall for the latest fad, freak show, or rabble rouser. They’re more immune to nonsense.

Not totally, but more.

Because they’re open, they’ll maybe take a quick look at this, that, or the other thing, but that doesn’t worry me. Open minds are quicker to detect the baloney and just as quick to reject it.

Dull, closed minds might stay awhile.

Open minds are skeptical—in a good way. Can’t be easily led down a garden path.

They’ll look at demagogues like Warren Jeffs, Senator Joe McCarthy, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Kim Jung-il and their kith and kin—the list and the history is fairly endless, a rogue’s gallery—and they’ll laugh. They’ll also cringe. But laughing is always a good start with that type. And the sooner the better.

Those guys and their ilk prey on closed minds—whether self-inflicted or forced.

So yeah, I’m a subscriber to the education/open-mind thing. Dearly departed Malcolm Forbes had it right.

Problem is, from the look of things on the world scene, we’ve been failing good old Malcolm’s idea big time. Have been since the dawn of man. And a big part of the problem is that few think their minds are closed. It’s the other guy.

Nevertheless, down the trail of history, it sometimes seems the open-minded moments are well-spaced and relatively infrequent. And worse, it seems like that’s the way some people like it.

Less pressure to think that way. Less examination of the flavor-of-the-day cracked-pot idea.

Strange to say, but we’ve got to keep reminding ourselves that thinking is a good thing.

SLATE VIDEO: The Presidency Isn't an Economic Sacrifice

Speaks for Itself

Simply Omazing

(Sent by Roy Wilson)
You'll only be able to take about a minute of this guy, but it's a hoot, nonetheless. He finds himself in an impossible situation but still brasses it out.

COLUMN: The Mother of All Nightmares

By Tobin Barnes
Here’s the stuff of nightmares:

Guy wakes up in excruciating pain.

The source?

Medical examiners are beginning an autopsy.

That’s right, on him.

So says a Reuters news story from Caracas, Venezuela. Maybe you’ve read it.

“Carlos Camejo, 33, was declared dead after a highway accident and taken to the morgue, where examiners began an autopsy only to realize something was amiss when he started bleeding.”

Amiss? Man, we’re talking “Twilight Zone” on crack.

“I woke up because the pain was unbearable,” Camejo said.

Yeah, a live autopsy could be brutal.

They moved him out into the corridor and that’s where his grieving wife found him.

Weird, huh?

So I’m thinking, hey, if anyone thinks I’m dead, pump about five bullets into me to make sure, okay. I’ll forgo any remote chances of a miraculous recovery to avoid waking up in a morgue refrigerator or cremation unit.

And I’m not the only one.

Back in the days before embalming, people used to freak at the idea of being buried alive. I’ve read how some people gave explicit directions that their hearts should be removed from their bodies after death to avoid the issue altogether.

I’ve also run across some urban legend-type stuff that you may or may not want to take with a grain of salt.

No, upon second reading, better take the salt.

According to London trivia expert Sam Bali, gravesites were reused in old England because of lack of space. They’d dig up coffins, take the bones out and compactly put them in a “bone-house,” then use the grave again. On the lids of one out of twenty-five coffins, he says, they found scratch marks of people trying to get out.

Uh huh.

Bali says they realized they’d been mistakenly burying people alive.

Yowsa!

So they came up with contraptions to avoid such a calamity, like tying a string to the supposed corpse’s wrist that led up through the ground to a bell. Whence comes our oft-used “saved by the bell” and “dead ringer.”

People paid to spend nights listening for the bell (or presumably “bells” on busy nights) were working “the graveyard shift.”

Trivialist Bali says that the origins of a “wake” are not far removed. And that the period between perceived death and burial was spent with people gathered around the body eating and drinking and waiting for the off-chance that the deceased wasn’t really dead.

Upon further investigation, however, I found that the word maven at word-detective.com thinks that’s just a bunch of hooey--that no one really expected the body to wake up at a “wake.”

Maybe the “dead ringer” stuff is just a bunch of hooey, too. Lot of hooey out there, as you well know.

But they’re good stories, nonetheless.

Creepy.

Kind of stuff that makes me want to have someone pump maybe five bullets in me before they call the undertaker. And if I don’t bleed, we’re good to go.

THE ETHICIST: Bad Business

SLATE VIDEO: Five Brothers

Great satire.

VIDEO: Could The Electric Car Save Us

In case you missed it, this David Pogue segment first aired on CBS Sunday Morning. Very interesting. Maybe we're finally headed in the right direction.

COLUMN: Son, You Need to Slow Down

By Tobin Barnes
I crashed my home computer.

Again.

Yeah, it’s happened before. Couple times, actually.

This time I was taking a corner too sharply, I guess. Ran off the road and flew into a digital abyss. Fortunately, no one got hurt, but I wasn’t particularly perky when I found myself sitting amongst the wreckage.

Like a lot of other racers, I’ve never really known what the heck’s under the hood, but I fancy myself a top-notch driver, nevertheless. Learned a lot of tricks along the way so I can burn rubber in cyberspace.

Problem is, I get a little cocky sometimes. Old lead-foot syndrome. I like the pedal to the metal, see. After all, it’s all about speed, isn’t it?

But that’s what gets me in trouble.

Doesn’t mean I’m not concerned with safety, though. I’ve got a pit crew that supports me 100 percent. Or so I’d like to think.

My pit crew’s a back-up plan. Everywhere you look, they tell you to have a back-up plan. I had one.

I back up my stuff on CD’s and I even back up my stuff on an Internet site. But maybe that’s why I get cocky.

Start thinking crashes can’t be all that bad.

But hold on there, Parnelli. They can be. Oh lordy me, yes.

I figure it’ll take a couple weeks to get back where I was before.

Ironically, my last crash happened as I was supposedly backing up my system so future crashes wouldn’t affect me. For some dumb reason, I thought I could stop the backup midway through—a kind of digitalus interruptus.

Immediately, I got the message, “Stopping the backup now may leave your system in an inconsistent state.”

That would halt most geeks, but not me. Heck, inconsistent state? There’s a lot of inconsistencies in life. What’s one more? Ralph Waldo Emerson even said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

I clicked “Continue.”

And oh, fellow sinner...it was a mistake. I was already over the speed limit, hurtling for the hairpin turn and the greedy abyss below.

Yet even at that point I could have recovered, but no. A spasm of ineptitude overcame me instead, and I blundered into a series of bad decisions that produced a perfect storm of cyberspace destruction that seemingly laughed at my backup plan, then slapped it silly.

It left my computer virtually mindless.

When I tried to make it do something, its only reply was, “Huh?”

Well...I’ve learned my lesson...for the third time. I’m practicing safe computing from now on. Warnings will be heeded. Inconsistencies will be avoided. I will not “Continue.”

No saucy race course attitudes from me any more.

That is, until maybe next time when I feel the need for speed.

Laugh Lines as Collected by The New York Times

God and Golf

(sent by Roy Wilson)
God asks Arnie first: "What do you believe?" Arnie thinks long and hard, looks God in the eye, and says, "I believe in hard work, and in staying true to family and friends. I believe in giving. I was lucky, but I always tried to do right by my fans."

God can't help but see the essential goodness of Palmer, and offers him a seat to his left.

Then God turns to Nicklaus and says, "What do you believe?" Jack says, "I believe passion, discipline, courage and honor are the fundamentals of life. I, too, have been lucky, but win or lose, I've always tried to be a true sportsman, both on and off the playing fields."

God is greatly moved by Jack's high-pitched eloquence, and he offers him a seat to his right.

Finally, God turns to Woods: "And you, Tiger, what do you believe?"

Tiger replies, "I believe you're in my seat."

COLUMN: Smoking Out the Madmen

By Tobin Barnes
I’ve been watching the TV show “Madmen” lately. You can find it on the AMC cable channel. It’s gotten rave reviews.

The “madmen” of the title are actually “admen” working the advertising business on New York’s Madison Avenue in the early 1960’s. I guess it’s the Madison Avenue part that makes them the “madmen.” (Have to admit, I just got that.)

Despite the gray flannel suits, thin ties, and Brylcreemed hair, “Madmen” isn’t another “Leave It to Beaver” or “Father Knows Best.” Far from it. Tad on the dark side, actually. The leading man’s somewhat of a cad, unlike the bright and shiny Jim Anderson played by good old Robert Young.

If anything, this is “Father Knows Best” on giant draughts of nicotine. Also, throw in healthy doses of male chauvinism, adultery, and plenty of angst.

Of course, my early 1960’s, when I was eight or nine, never looked like the sanitized “Ozzie and Harriet” sitcoms of that era. Far as I could tell, my mother wasn’t the only one in my neighborhood not prancing around in day dresses and pearls.

Sure, those sitcoms were good for a few laughs, but they were only tangentially related to everyday life. It took “All in the Family” later on to break that mold.

But then “Madmen” isn’t like my 1960’s, either. The New York City high life was far removed from my small-town South Dakota experiences. Nevertheless, I continually get flashbacks watching that show.

Particularly from all the cigarette smoking going on.

Even if the actors never touch a cigarette off set, they’re still doomed for the oncology ward a few years from now. (They’re obviously sacrificing for their art.)

Almost every scene in “Madmen,” and I’m not exaggerating, is filled with cigarette smoke. Characters, including the women, are constantly flicking ashes. In many ways, lighting up and inhaling smoke is the main action in this series dominated by relatively stagnant office, restaurant, and at-home scenes.

At first, all that smoking is almost distracting. Kinda like, “What’s up with that? Thought Hollywood was supposed to start cutting down on the cigs.” Then you start realizing: “Hey, but that’s the way it used to be.”

The producers of “Madmen” are throwing cold water in their viewers' faces—that is, those of a certain age--with the ubiquitous cigarette smoke and saying, “Remember?”

And, yes, I do.

The World War II generation, despite their countless exemplary qualities, smoked it up big time. Wasn’t their fault, though. Didn’t know the consequences. And they’d been sold the habit as part of the American Dream by the very admen portrayed in the show I’m talking about.

Of course, the government played a part, too. From what I understand, cigarettes were an essential part of soldiers’ and sailors’ rations during WWII. If they weren’t smokers before, they turned into smokers on the battle fronts, and who can blame them?

So we baby boomers grew up in billowing clouds of tobacco smoke.

Second hand? My dad was three packs a day. I was inhaling just like him in the house and especially in the car.

Ash trays were all over the place at home and in public. And I don’t remember too many people saying, “Do you mind if I smoke?” It was a given. Actually, people got a little shirty if someone answered, “Yes.”

Granted, people didn’t know the full impact of the health consequences back then, but the nasty characteristics, including hacker’s cough and yellow teeth, were obviously apparent. The commercials and magazine ads didn’t show any of that. Not part of the adman’s American Dream. And certainly, the same manipulation goes on today but with other products.

Anyway, like I said, I’ve been watching “Madmen,” following the usually grim story line, and appreciating the uncanny reproduction of a time period but also finding myself sitting there watching the inhales and exhales of smoke and thinking, “Wow, I grew up in all that.”

Laugh Lines

THE ONION: The Rich and Super-Rich

In The Know: Are America's Rich Falling Behind The Super-Rich?

SLATE VIDEO: Chimps' Memory

Interesting stuff.

COLUMN: A Special Agent on Pop Bottle Surveillance Detail

By Tobin Barnes
My old man was a character.

If most people are vanilla, he was rocky road.

His standard dress most of the years I knew him was a t-shirt, Osh Kosh B’Gosh striped overalls, no socks and casual slip ons. Uh huh, unusual.

In winter, he’d throw on a grey sweatshirt when he’d go outside. But no matter how cold, I never saw him wear gloves or a coat or even a jacket. He was good at internal combustion. He ran hot.

Things could get him riled pretty easily. When my parents were in the motel business, we suffered a rash of thefts...of empty pop bottles, that is. Kids would walk by our pop machine with the rack of empties next to it and grab a few on their way by. Probably traded them in at the neighborhood grocery. They were worth two cents apiece. Bought candy with the pennies.

They most likely thought, who would miss a few bottles? Well, my old man would. And it burned his butt.

So he started watching out for the pop bottle thieves.

Now most people would say, “Two cents here, two cents there. Big deal.” They didn’t know my old man.

One summer day, either he or I saw a couple kids taking some bottles out of the rack. Actually, I think it was I who saw them. Though only seven or eight, I was his special agent on pop bottle surveillance detail.

Anyway, Dad blew out of the door after those kids like the Tasmanian Devil you see in cartoons.

And imagine this from the thieves’ point of view: Nearly three-hundred pounds of grim striped overalls bearing down on you. The image probably haunted their dreams for years. Might still get a flashback or two, even though they’re now in their 50’s.

Though big, my old man had played fullback in professional football, so he was on them in no time flat. The slowest of the two earned a punt kick in the pants (the old man’s ingrown toenail pained him for weeks after), but the kid only missed a half step in his dash to get the hell out of there. He was still clutching one of the bottles like a relay baton. The value of an empty pop bottle had just gone up.

Of course, if this would have happened nowadays, it’d be my old man in trouble. Parents would be prosecuting despite their own kids’ low-level thievery. But back then a man had the right to protect his property--two cents at a time--and people thought it took a village to set a kid straight.

Nevertheless, I’d see my old man do stuff like this and think, “My dad’s different.”

Like the time I was starting to take an interest in golf--maybe ten or eleven. I was over in the vacant lot chipping some golf balls around. My dad saw me, came over and asked for the club. He was going to show me how to develop a good swing. Though he no longer played, he’d shot a 29 for nine holes when he was in high school, a story I’d heard many times.

So without further adieu, he teed one up on a clump of grass, and without taking a practice swing, crushed it out into the neighborhood. His old-fashioned, whippy-style swing had produced a full-flushed shot that sailed up over some trees and houses and out into the ether and, like Hiawatha’s arrow, landed he knew not where.

The ball could have taken out a window, cracked a windshield, or bonked some guy out mowing his lawn. Most likely it bounced harmlessly into someone’s yard. We never knew and he didn’t seem to care.

No doubt I was impressed by this athletic side I’d often heard of but hadn’t seen before, but I was also stunned by such irresponsibility. Even at my age. It was like, “Who’s the adult here?”

And since we spent a lot of time together, I experienced many moments like this, wondering what was going to shake loose next.

But don’t get me wrong, this was the same man who spent countless hours volunteering his time umping little league games in the hot summer sun. The same guy who’d pack up a bunch of us neighbor kids in the car and drive us around looking for pop bottles in the ditches so we’d have spending money.

And when he had his taxi business, he was the darling of little old ladies from all over town who loved him for his attention, his wide-ranging conversation, and his concern for their needs.

It was a strange dichotomy going on with him. And certainly, all children eventually see confusing yin and yang revelations in their own parents. Mine came early and often.

Obviously, I still wonder about it.

Miss Teen USA Contestant Stupefied by Question

She's got a future in politics.

P.S. After I posted this classic, I discovered a number of satirical takeoffs on Miss South Carolina, poor dear. Try this link, which can lead you to others:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQc6oBCuDXk

And:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F226lI-lo5M&mode=related&search=

THE ETHICIST: A Soldier's Gift

Laugh Lines from Late Night TV

COLUMN: I'm Not Going to Face It

By Tobin Barnes
Been a lot a buzz lately about social networking sites on the Internet. But haven’t really been interested in them even though I spend a lot of time on my computer.

I’m mostly a facts and opinions sort a guy. Maybe a few laughs here and there. That’s how my time’s spent on the Internet.

Like I said, a lot of time. Almost unhealthily so.

But making friends in cyberspace? Instant messaging? Chit chat? Eh...not really interested.

Maybe it’s because I’m not all that social. Maybe kind of a crank, actually.

Sure, I like my friends, relatives, and acquaintances. Hey, after all, I’m not a mole under a rock. But I’m not particularly looking for more. Instead, I’ll take ’em when I get ’em.

Nevertheless, there’s been all this falderal about social networking, particularly the Facebook site. Big article in Newsweek for one. Talked about the founder Mark Zuckerberg who at 19 started this online phenomenon at Harvard.

Facebook started as a way for students to interact at a college where you don’t exactly mass enroll with a bunch of your buddies. Because Harvard’s so selective--over 90% of applicants are rejected--incoming freshmen probably don’t know anyone else when they arrive on campus.

The Facebook concept quickly spread to other colleges--like wildfire, that is, and just last year they opened things up to non-college students as well. Now more than half of
Facebook’s 35 million active users are not in college.

On the site, users post pictures and news and links and you name it. People get addicted to checking out their “friends” sites on a disturbingly frequent basis.

One of the co-founders reportedly said, "In five years, we'll have everybody on the planet on Facebook."

When Facebook went “viral,” as they say in Internet parlance, young Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard feeling the institution no longer had much more to offer him. Probably right. Internet behemoth Yahoo! offered him a billion dollars for his company. He turned that chump change down, thinking the sky’s the limit.

Well, Zuckerberg doesn’t know me and my ilk, I guess. There’s going to be at least one missing active member on the planet. I’m thinking there might be more.

Sure, I went to the site and registered. I’m a curious guy.

Didn’t stay there long, though. Filling out the profile kinda knocked me off the rails. My creep-o-meter went to red almost immediately.

First off, it asked for my sex. No big deal there, but then it asked me to check off which I was “Interested in,” men or women. Man there’s a loaded response. Interested in what sense?

Next, it asked for my “Relationship Status.” Choices were these: Single, In a Relationship, In an Open Relationship, Engaged, Married, and It’s Complicated.

Yeah, well they’re all complicated.

Then, I was supposed to check off what I was “Looking for.” Here were my choices: Friendship, A Relationship, Dating, Random Play, and Whatever I can get.

When I saw those last two, I knew I was done with Facebook. Either that, or my wife would be done with me. Messing around on this site, I knew I’d eventually have a lot of “splainin to do.” Not that I would have checked off “Random Play” or God forbid “Whatever I can get,” but I was sensing this whole thing just wasn’t me.

Not being the type who’s actively looking for new friends in the first place, I surmised that some of my future Facebook “friends” might have some bizarre agendas.

Leaving the above questions unanswered, I sure as heck wasn’t going to move on to “Political Views” and “Religious Views.” Answering those questions is more likely to get you enemies than friends.

Oh, I fully realize what’s going on with this. I see their point. After all, you have to share information if you want to make friends. And the questions have to be pretty generalized. That is, if you’re going to make a place for “everyone on the planet.”

Obviously, this stuff fits some people to a tee.

But I guess they’ll just have to do the best they can without my little piece of the globe. And I doubt if I’ll be missed.

THE ETHICIST: A Couple Tough Ones

Laugh Lines as Collected by the New York Times

THE ONION: 100 Years Old and Still on the Job

World's Oldest Neurosurgeon Turns 100

COLUMN: Watching the Dog Chew a Bone

By Tobin Barnes
I’m sitting on my porch watching my dog chew a bone...or, as they used to say, “worry a bone.”

Neat expression. Folksy.

And like most folksy expressions, it’s got a kernel of truth because if you’re paying attention to the dog, as I am now, not much seems to be happening to the bone while the dog’s working on it. Just kind of irritating it is all.

Matter of fact, the process seems futile--gnaw, gnaw, gnaw and nothing. Not much of a show even.

But if you’re patient, like the dog, every once in a while you’ll hear a crack, and that’s progress. Time passes--depends on how often the dog takes it on and then leaves it off--and eventually, there’s not much left of that bone.

Now at this point, some people would launch into a “life lesson” based on a dog and a bone, but not me. It’d be a cheap shot. Besides, I’ve had enough of those instructive moments, and I know you probably have, too. Only so many life lessons a person can take in a life. At a certain point, you’ve got it or you’re never going to get it. Don’t need someone harping on you with another lesson.

Being a high school teacher, I see it in teenagers all the time, and they’re the ones who could still use a few more lessons. Some well-intentioned someone starts in on them way too directly, and they almost always immediately roll their eyes and shut down. Doesn’t take a philosopher to understand why, but you’d be surprised how many advice-givers could use some more philosophy.

Then again, this isn’t about that. This is just about me watching my dog. It’s a relaxing thing to do, watching a dog. I suspect it’s the reason people have dogs so they can sit there and watch them. Dogs’re kind of like us but mostly not. Makes them interesting.

Of course, sitting watching your dog conjures up a family of rednecks out on their porch on a steamy southern evening watching their dogs work over the leftovers: ribs and ham hocks and such. I’m not looking down my nose at rednecks. Not on this particular, anyway--watching dogs for entertainment--here they’ve got the right idea as far as I can see.

As I watch my dog chew the bone, I think it’s better than what she used to chew on when she was young and dumb, which was just about everything, and that wasn’t nearly as enjoyable for me.

She’d chew the wood trim around the outside door jam. She’d chew up our water hoses. The tin dryer vent on the side of the house, for crying out loud. She even chewed off all the lattice I’d so painstakingly installed around the bottom of the deck. Every last slat.

And I was lucky. An acquaintance said his dog chewed the foam seat right off his riding lawn mower.

All this chewing, evidently, to prepare for the real work of a dog’s life, bones.

But I think the bone burying thing is a cartoon myth. Leastwise, I’ve never seen it. She’s hid her bones plenty, and she won’t let me have them when I come close--you know, not that I’d really want them--but I’ve never seen her bury one and dig it up later. That’d present a whole nother set of problems with holes around the yard. The urine dead spots are bad enough.

So yeah, my dog’s been strictly a bone chewer, thank goodness, for the last eight years or so. No more dryer vents.

But she’s getting old now. In her seventies, according to the dog-year charts. Meantime, I’ve aged, too. Nothing, however, like her sprint through life. She’s gone from gangly, stupid pupdom to elder-statesman complacency in seemingly no time flat.

And I’ve watched her all this time and I’ve seen her watching me, too. We’re both, no doubt, puzzled by the other.

Difference is, I think she thinks not much has changed through the years. And I’m pretty sure they have.

But she may be right. Another day, another bone.